


Old Souls

by shadownashira



Category: Sherlock (TV), Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Pre-Series, Sherlock Makes Deductions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadownashira/pseuds/shadownashira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hitting the light switch, Jon realises two things at once. One, this is one of the men he saw earlier involved in the drug deal – a young man with dark curly hair – and two, said man is having a seizure.</i>
</p><p>While on a road trip, the teenage clone of Jack O'Neill finds himself in the underbelly of London where he saves the life of a drug-addicted young genius, thereby attracting the attention of both Holmeses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Souls

Jon shoulders his way into the motel room, grimacing at the tiny space, threadbare carpeting and dubious stains on the bed sheets. He'll definitely be using his sleeping bag instead, and drag the chair over in front of the door to slow down any night-time intruders. Still, it's a roof over his head that keeps him out of the miserable London rain at a price that he can afford, and the questionable safety of the location is something he's willing to give up in exchange for anonymity. In this part of the city, no one asks too many questions, which is perfect for someone like Jon, who even though has started his growth spurt still can't quite pass for an eighteen-year-old. 

He catalogues the contents of his backpack, but they haven't changed. The critical issue now is his stash of funds which have steadily dwindled throughout the past month as he made his way through Europe. Jon scowls; he'd been hoping to get to Dublin, but it looks like London is the end of his trip. He _can_ call Daniel or someone else with his emergency cell for more cash, but his pride won't allow that. He had already allowed Daniel to pay for his plane ticket to Austria where the man had been headed for an archaeological symposium, but had declined the offer of staying with the doctor. Instead, he had struck out on his own on a summer road trip with the savings accumulated over the past year from the monthly pay-outs the SGC gave him. He's still got a few grand in an account to purchase an air ticket back home, but that's it.

Still, going out and about on his own for a month has lessened a lot of his frustrations about being a teenager again. He's under no illusions that he's not being kept track of, because that's what the subdermal transmitter in his arm is for, but ever since being deposited in a new life he's been mostly left unsupervised. 

He buys a plane ticket back to Colorado Springs for a date a week later, then spends the next few days wandering around London being a tourist. One thing he's learned over the past month is that it's surprisingly easy for a lone teenager to blend in with the crowd. All he has to do is stick close at the heels of a family and pretend he's part of it.

*********

One night in the motel, he emerges from the shared showers to find a drug deal being conducted in the corridor. He ignores it as he's done the previous nights, because it's none of his business and he doesn't want to get into a fight.

An undetermined time later, he wakes up to a muffled _thump_ outside. Blearily he squints at his watch which reads _2:41AM_. Grumbling, he turns over in his sleeping bag and tries to go back to sleep as there's more noise like someone is fumbling their way through the corridor outside. Usually he blocks most of the sounds out, because in a place like this, the thin walls allow for pretty much any activity by neighbours to be heard. There's always an enthusiastic couple or a drunkard stumbling around.

Tonight, however, a prickle of uneasiness crawls up his spine and he finds himself listening to whoever is outside. The person is breathing rapidly in quick bursts and mumbling disjointedly to himself, staggering past his door and away until silence falls again. Jon wants to brush it off, but he's fully awake now and his instincts are on full alert. Something about the person's rattling breaths and gasps of air is just _wrong_.

Wriggling free, he tucks his pistol into his waistband and pulls his t-shirt down to cover it, puts on his shoes, then silently moves the chair out of the way so that he can exit his room. The corridor is empty, but he moves with his back against the wall until he comes across a room with the door slightly ajar. Pausing outside, he listens, a spike of alarm going through him at the gasping breaths that have accelerated from rapid to hysterical. He pushes the door open and nearly trips over a body lying just inside.

Hitting the light switch, Jon realises two things at once. One, this is one of the men he saw earlier involved in the drug deal – a young man with dark curly hair – and two, said man is having a seizure.

Jon doesn't think, he reacts. Throwing himself to the floor, he shouts for help and tries to keep the man from cracking his skull against the wall. It's easier said than done; he's all bony limbs. He finally manages to wedge an arm under the brunet's head as the door opposite opens to a sleepy couple. 

"Call an ambulance!" he snarls at them as he turns the convulsing man onto his side. A minute later, the seizures stop, and so does the man's breathing.

By the time the paramedics arrive, the man has stopped breathing thrice and Jon's arms and neck are sore from performing CPR. In the ensuing commotion, he slips off to his room and hastily rolls up his sleeping bag. Snatching up his backpack, he disappears out a back door. There's a dusting of white powder along his arms and clothes from where he had been in contact with the seizing man, and if this is drug-related then the police won't be far off. 

Cleaning off at a dark unlit riverbank of the Thames, he spends the rest of the night under a bridge, huddling with the rest of London's homeless while keeping a firm hold on his backpack. When dawn arrives, Jon watches from within a crowd of onlookers as the motel, now cordoned off with police tape, is swarmed by members of Scotland Yard. He knows better than to linger too long, moving off after a few minutes.

He doesn't regret what he did, but the fact is that he had had the motel room paid for the entire week, and what remaining cash he has is meant for food. He has five more days until he can fly back home, and nowhere to sleep.

Jon drifts around familiarising himself with the rundown areas of London, parts of the city that most residents would rather forget exist. He and his large backpack are eyed more than once, but in the evening when four scruffy teens finally corner him in an alley, Jon is more than ready to defend himself. He's careful not to break any bones, but the teens end up scurrying off with bruises and black eyes. 

His would-be muggers run past a young woman with soft brown curls standing at the entrance to the alley, watching the proceedings silently. From her ragged clothes, it's evident that she's homeless too. Jon gives her a questioning look as he dusts his leather jacket off.

"If I let you stay at our hideout, will you keep the Garretts from harassing us?"

He considers the woman. "I'm only going to be in London for another couple of days."

A shrug. "Tommy and Kit will only be back from the clinic tomorrow or the day after, but half of our food supplies are already gone. The little ones will starve."

The last sentence is a blatant manipulation and John raises his eyebrows at her. She smiles wryly. "We need to protect what we have left until the boys get back. It's hard to do that by myself with the younger ones."

They negotiate a little more but Jon doesn't need much, really, just a place to sleep where he won't have to constantly guard against his things being stolen, and more food, while not necessary, is always welcome. The woman's name is Ellie and she's been on the streets for almost a decade. She and the aforementioned Tommy and Kit share a space in an abandoned warehouse with three younger children. Tommy and Kit fell seriously ill recently and are away recovering at a free clinic, and the Garrett brothers have been moving in on their space ever since, pilfering food and clothing.

That night, he chases the Garretts off with a few well-aimed blows and a glimpse of his gun, then shares dinner with the group of kids. If they notice that he slips them most of his portion, they don't mention it.

When he wakes up the next morning, six-year-old Rachel and ten-year-old Raz are gone and Ellie is patching up holes in their clothing and blankets. "Picking the pockets of the office crowd at the Tube," Ellie explains as she nudges a packet of Jammy Dodgers towards him. "Should be back soon." 

The youngest, four-year-old Kenny, is poring over a dog-eared picture book, running his tiny fingers over a stylised letter 'G'. Ellie raises her chin defiantly when she catches Jon's sideways glance. "I'm teaching them to read."

Jon looks back down. "Hey, buddy, you need help with that?"

Kenny pushes the book at him bossily. "I wanna know what it says. Tell me!"

"Happy to oblige, kid. Here, have a biscuit. Now, let's start from the first page…"

*********

Well into his third day since meeting Ellie and joining the ranks of the homeless, Jon boosts three teens, all physically younger than him, up and over the gate separating one apartment building from another before hauling himself over to land lightly on his feet. That's one good thing out of his new existence; he's got a teenager's knees and is able to go tumbling over walls and down stairs easily. The teens are grinning toothily as they wander out into the streets, loot from their dumpster diving tucked safely into backpacks. They separate at an intersection with friendly nods.

His time here in the underbelly of London has been an eye-opener. The homeless are surprisingly organised and well-informed, knowing exactly which shops and restaurants throw out garbage that can be ransacked for valuable leftovers, or the activities of every gang and correspondingly which neighbourhoods to avoid. Most of the homeless commit petty crimes that Jon isn't too bothered with; a well-to-do Londoner losing a little cash or 'misplacing' a pack of crisps won't starve, which is a fate that is all too real for the homeless. The more serious criminals – murderers, kidnappers, rapists and the like – are given a wide berth by the others. 

"Jon!" Raz jogs up to him, whatever he's carrying in his backpack clinking together with a metallic noise. Probably half-empty cans of spray paint. Kid's got an affinity for 'decorating' walls.

"Hey, munchkin." 

"You're not that much older than me," he complains. 

"Still older." Jon smiles faintly, bittersweet. _A lot older than you think._ "Anything going on?"

"Yeah, actually." Raz twists his head up towards him. "You wanted to know if the coppers found out anything about you from the motel, right?"

He slings a companionable arm around the boy's shoulders as they walk. "I take it there's news."

"That area is Bei's haunt, so I asked him about it. Turns out the coppers think you're one of us, and went around trying to find out who you were. No one would tell them anything, of course."

Not without a bribe. Offer the homeless enough incentive, and all kinds of information that can potentially be useful to Scotland Yard for their investigations will come tumbling out. Not that the police will ever seriously consider them as a source of information, not unless it's related to gang activity or drugs. Woe for them. 

Since he'll be long gone by the end of the week, he's not too concerned for himself.

"But word on the street is that during the past two days, some bloke, not a copper, has been asking around about you."

"Who?"

Raz shrugs. "It's a weird name, I don't remember. He's got some really fancy digs so he's not one of us. But he's also a druggie, been buying on the streets for a while so he knows at least a couple of us. Someone might have blabbed."

Someone definitely blabbed, because later that afternoon as Jon is lingering outside a café watching an employee put out the garbage, he becomes aware that he's being followed, that familiar itching sensation on the back of his neck. Casually, he sets off on a winding stroll through various alleyways, picking routes that are empty. 

The person trailing him is good but not a professional. The third time he catches a glimpse of dark curly hair, he realises who it is. Rolling his eyes, he takes stock of his surroundings, then vaults up onto a dumpster and reaches for the second-floor fire escape.

Sure enough, the same black-haired man from the motel strides into the alley, stopping abruptly. In daylight, the man is slightly older than Jon first thought, somewhere in his mid-twenties. He's tall and striking enough that the dark coat and suit underneath lend him a dramatic air, but his limp curls and wan pallor diminish the effect. He's also unhealthily thin, cheekbones protruding.

"I'm glad to see that you're alive," Jon calls down from where he's crouched, "but is there a reason you're stalking me?"

The stranger's head snaps up and around, zeroing in on him. "Get down from there."

"Not unless you tell me why you're following me around." He thinks about that, and then adds, "Probably not even then."

The man steps closer, holding himself gingerly, likely because of injured ribs from the other night. Jon can see, now, the manic energy that seems to possess him, the twitch of his fingers and swift back-and-forth movement of his cat-like eyes as he tips his head back to stare up at him. "I need to know everything about you."

"You're just coming off as creepy," he informs him. He stands, about to brush this whole thing off, climb up to the rooftop to get away.

"No, don't." The man makes an aborted movement towards him. "I just want to talk to you."

He has no idea why he does it, but after a moment of deliberation, Jon leaps down from the fire escape and lands a few feet away from the stranger. Straightening, he fixes an expectant gaze on him. "Okay, I'm here. Now talk."

And talk he does.

"The woman who called for the ambulance identified you as an American based on your accent. So did her husband and the clerk at the motel. Your age was estimated to be from between sixteen to eighteen, and the only useful physical descriptor was your blond hair." The man is clearly getting on a roll, words falling rapid-fire from his tongue. "Now, being the summer holidays, there are currently a great number of American tourists in London, and amongst those would be blond teenagers. However, you are clearly not here with your family, and certainly not a typical tourist. In fact, you are not a typical teenager at all."

Jon crosses his arms coolly. The speed at which the other man talks surpasses even Daniel at his most excited and _that_ is a feat. For that alone, Jon keeps listening and doesn't dart past him to disappear into the maze of alleyways. "And why's that?"

"Don't ask obvious questions," the man snaps, his eyebrows drawing together in irritation. When Jon does nothing but give him an unimpressed look, the man hisses and gestures agitatedly with his hands. "The evidence in your motel room suggests only a single occupant, so you're travelling by yourself. Staying in a motel in the underbelly of London where people regularly close one eye against the crimes taking place in front of them, paying for your room in cash? You're trying to stay anonymous. Yet you still helped a stranger at the risk of drawing attention to yourself, taking charge of the situation and performing CPR with great proficiency. The fact that, from just hearing me go past your room, you recognised I wasn't just high but in actual distress, is yet another detail pointing to how very much like a typical teenager you are not." 

He flicks his eyes lightning-fast over Jon again, alight with restlessness. "You're armed with a concealed handgun, and your stance is military. The paramedics who attended to me agreed that your execution of CPR was flawless and most definitely saved my life. During the five minutes we've been standing here, you've been constantly surveying our surroundings, mapping out exit routes for yourself, and you're confident you can get past me. Perhaps you attend a military school in the States, which would explain most of what I described. But how then would you be travelling without an adult as you're clearly not yet eighteen? Emancipation? Possible, but why would you be trying so hard to be anonymous? You're too relaxed to be on the run for some crime or other, and even though you've evidently run out of funds now, you had enough to begin with to get to this continent in the first place. What happened to you?"

That… is an odd choice of question. Definitely not the 'who are you?' he was expecting. Jon notes again the expensive-looking wardrobe that likely keeps the man warm, but also highlights how ghastly pale and haggard he is. "Are you sure you shouldn't be resting?"

"What?" The man's eyebrows draw together. Combined with the piercing green eyes and sharp contours of his cheekbones, the weight of his attention is slightly intimidating, but Jon is unfazed. Nothing this stranger can do or say can compare to everything else he's faced during his time in SG-1.

"You overdosed on contaminated cocaine a few days ago that very nearly killed you. Actually, it did kill you. Three times," he pointed out mildly. "Instead of sleeping in your warm bed, you've been running around London searching for me."

"I – that's not –" The man's head tilts, some of his vibrating tension bleeding out into confusion. He's trying to make sense of the conversation, and Jon gets the feeling he doesn't have to do that often. "How do you know about the cocaine and that I've been tracking you?"

Rumours about contaminated cocaine have been rife on the streets, but Jon doesn't explain, merely continues as if the other man hadn't spoken. "For all the assumptions you're making, I think I should know your name, huh? Mine's Jon, what about you?"

"I don't make _assumptions_ , I make educated deductions based on all the evidence observed," the man retorts derisively before frustration sweeps over his face. "Your name is irrelevant in this case. Answer my question!"

"Which one?" Jon smirks. "You asked more than one."

"Your deliberate deferral in giving me useful information is _infuriating_ ," he hisses down at him. 

"Yeah, I've been told that before," Jon drawls. "C'mon, buddy, name."

"It's Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. Will you answer my questions now?" 

"Mmm. When was the last time you ate?"

Glowering, Sherlock bites out, "Digestion impedes my thinking process."

Jon whistles. Daniel likes to claim that he doesn't have time to eat, but Jon has never heard that the eating itself hinders someone's brilliance. Sherlock is definitely some kind of genius, because he recognises that pulsating intensity; the SGC employs many talented people, and a significant number of the civilians have huge intellects and accompanying poor social skills. 

"You going to leave me alone anytime soon?"

"You're a puzzle. I need to solve you," is the irritable reply.

In response, he does a one-eighty turn, heading in the direction of the warehouse. A few ringing moments of stunned silence later, the sound of hurried footsteps trail after him.

*********

" – and that's why we get four. Now, say I want two times three. What would that be?"

Rachel frowns with an expression of utmost seriousness as she picks out two pebbles from the little pile they had accumulated. "Two pebbles, but I hafta do it three times, cos it's two times three!"

"Go on, then." As Rachel arranges the pebbles in a neat little row, Jon glances up at Sherlock standing against the wall, an observant shadow. The man had spent the first fifteen minutes prowling around, but there wasn't much to see in the dilapidated building, really, just little niches the homeless had carved out for themselves. When Jon had pointedly refused to answer any of his questions, the genius had settled for watching them – mostly Jon – with hawk-like scrutiny.

"You didn't eat your sandwich." He nods at the triangular sandwich half he had laid out on a crate.

Sherlock's gaze flicks away to sweep over the dingy back room again. Shopping bags filled with the group's meagre belongings are piled in a corner. His sleeping bag, willingly given up, is rolled up messily against a wall. Stacked beside it are several tattered blankets and cardboard boxes to be used later at night as insulation against the chilly cement floor. A bucket is set in the middle of the room to catch a leak, and the planks boarding up the window don't entirely keep the drafts out. Kenny is snoozing away at Jon's side, tucked against him closely to share body heat. Both he and Rachel are dressed in oversized clothes, patched over multiple times, and both have a gauntness to their frames that's disconcerting to see in ones so young. 

"It's…fine. I'll get something for myself later."

That's a lie, but he drops it for now. The others get back soon after, during which Jon's interactions with the kids are observed with keen attention. He tries to chase Sherlock off, but the man stubbornly refuses to leave, or at least refuses to leave without him.

Jon can almost see the gears spinning in Sherlock's head as he tries to figure out a way to snare him.

"I have seven eggs, two boxes of cereal, one point one kilogrammes of ham and sixteen slices of cheese in my flat that I don't intend to consume. They're leftovers – untainted and perfectly edible, I assure you – from an experiment I was conducting on mould spores and food colouring. If you answer my questions, I'll let you have them."

Jon rocks back on his heels and pretends to think about it. "How about…nope, still not answering your questions. But since you offered, I'll take the food. Where do you live?"

Sherlock looks put-off but radiates smugness now that something is finally going his way. "Montague Street."

"O-kay, and that is where, exactly? I'm not a native, in case y'all couldn't tell."

"About an hour's walk, fifteen minutes by taxi from here," Tommy offers.

Jon frowns. It's almost eight o'clock in the evening right now, and he doesn't enjoy the thought of having to walk there and back. "I'm guessing you don't have money for a cab?"

"No," Sherlock responds with far too much relish. "I've spent nearly all of my allowance for this month. We'll have to walk. You can stay over at my flat tonight."

"Really?" He gazes doubtfully at Sherlock, who rearranges his face and body language to project an aura of angelic innocence. "Right. Fine. Guys, you heard that? I'll be back tomorrow morning."

*********

Coat swirling around him, Sherlock cuts a sharp figure on the streets of London. Jon hunches in his leather jacket against the cold and marches alongside him. "I hope I didn't mess up your ribs too badly."

Sherlock's response is an indifferent twitch of his head. "Four cracked ribs."

He winces, irrationally guilty despite the fact that the injury had been a side effect of saving Sherlock's life, and changes the subject. "So are you at college? Working?" Though Jon really can't imagine what he would be willing to work as. Scientist? Researcher?

"Technically I suppose you could label me as unemployed." 

"But?"

"I've been lending my expertise to Scotland Yard in their investigations, but my efforts have generally gone unappreciated." Jon doesn't even have to look to visualise the scorn on Sherlock's face.

He tries to picture the scenario – dead victim, Sherlock showing up on a crime scene and confronting the husband or lover and deducing an affair, rattling off details about abandonment issues or inferiority complexes. And because the genius doesn't have a brain-to-mouth filter, turning those deductive skills on the police officers and announcing all kinds of secrets to the world at large. Yeah, he can understand why the cops wouldn't take to Sherlock at all. 

"Have you considered maybe being a bit more delicate with your words?" Something else occurs to Jon. "Please tell me you haven't shown up at crime scenes while high."

The ominous silence from the other man is answer enough. 

"It's just so _dull_!" Sherlock bursts out suddenly, startling a few passers-by. "Everyone thinks so slowly or doesn't think at all; the data is right in front of them but hardly anyone ever bothers to observe! Instead emotions and sentiment cloud up their minds and make them even more stupid. Meanwhile here I am, with everything so loud in my head but no one _listens_ and sometimes I just feel like I'm burning up and I don't know why I'm even telling you this – "

He breaks off, panting, hands pulling at his hair even as he continues to stride blindly, paying no heed to the people who veer around him with dirty looks. Jon is quiet at his side, making sure Sherlock doesn't run into a wall or into traffic. 

Daniel and Sam had each mentioned before the curse of having such brilliant minds. Society is cruel to those who don't fit in, who don't fit the definition of 'normal'. Sherlock, with his cutting tongue and non-existent social skills, must have had an even more difficult time coping. He coped, Jon realises sadly, with drugs.

"Sherlock," he starts gently, but the genius is blinking, his face pulling into an embarrassed shape before levelling out again into a haughty mask. Jon can almost see the walls going back up.

"You had a younger brother, not older than ten years of age, who passed away several years ago," Sherlock announces brusquely. "You still believe yourself to be the cause of his death."

The breath catches in his throat as his feet come to a halt abruptly. It's not that he doesn't think about Charlie often, because he does, but having him brought up so unexpectedly by a man he met less than three hours ago is jarring, like a punch to the gut or an old wound ripping back open. It doesn't even matter that Sherlock got it wrong, that Charlie was his _son_ , who had been killed because Jon had been an idiot. The worst kind of idiot.

Sherlock pivots neatly on his heel to face him, scrutinising whatever expression is showing on Jon's features. Jon feels himself going perfectly smooth and blank as he stares up coldly at the taller man. Any compassion he has for the young genius is buried under a tide of hurt. He doesn't know what he's going to say or do; tell Sherlock to fuck off and break his nose, or just walk away. 

It's on the very tip of his tongue to say, _"He died because of me. I might as well have murdered him with my own hands."_

They don't get to see what Jon would do, because in the next moment Sherlock's eyes dart to the road behind Jon and an expression of extreme aggravation materialises. A black town car pulls up alongside them as Sherlock mutters crossly to himself, "Urgh, cameras."

Jon's attention shifts and refocuses as a tall man wearing a waistcoat and carrying an umbrella exits the car. He takes a nonchalant step forward to put himself between Sherlock and the stranger, weight balanced on the balls of his feet and the soldier in him evaluating tactics. 

Said stranger blinks slowly and tilts his head at Jon. "How very curious." 

"Wow," Jon says. "I thought I knew what 'posh' meant, but I really didn't until now."

The man smiles falsely at him, adjusting his weight to lean on his umbrella. To Jon, the man's every movement is deliberate and controlled, down to every minute twitch. That, as well as the subtle aura of danger radiating from him, gets on his nerves.

"Good evening, Sherlock, Mr Neilson. May I offer both of you a ride back to Montague Street?"

If the stranger hadn't raised Jon's hackles before, he does now. "Oh, I dunno, my ma taught me never to take candy from strangers. I think that applies to car rides too."

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock growls. 

"Oh, come now, Sherlock. I allowed you to have some space to yourself the past few days after your overdose. Surely you didn't expect me to stay away forever."

"I wish you had."

"As childish as ever, I see."

"Go. Away."

And okay, that snippy exchange sounds less like a potential threat and more like an often-repeated squabble. Sherlock, especially, seems to have regressed to a petulant teenager scowling at Mycroft, or a bristling cat hissing at him. Mycroft just smiles tolerantly, but there's a definite difference in the way he views Jon and Sherlock. He appraises Jon like he's assessing a threat, and Jon's met enough distrustful natives off-world to recognise the look. Sherlock, however, is regarded with long-suffering patience.

Jon's posture relaxes as a thought occurs to him. Huh. "Are you guys related?"

Two pairs of piercing eyes narrow on him.

"What makes you say that?" questions Sherlock.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, blasé. "Just a guess. Am I right?"

Mycroft examines him for several seconds before inclining his head. "Sherlock is my younger brother."

Sherlock's lips twist in disgust, wordlessly making clear his opinion on that relation.

Eventually, he ends up seated between the two brothers in the car. Not a position he would have chosen voluntarily, but Sherlock had refused to be seated next to Mycroft and Jon was tired of standing around in the cold.

"I wish to thank you for saving my brother's life, Mr Neilson."

"It was a miscalculation." The words are muffled as Sherlock has his head turned towards the window, the light from passing street lamps playing over his features.

"Yes, Sherlock, a miscalculation which would have cost you your life in a filthy motel room if it were not for Mr Neilson here. It was a very fortuitous and fortunate coincidence that he was in the right place at the right time, possessing the capability to resuscitate you." Somehow, Mycroft manages to insinuate a healthy amount of doubt into the statement. 

"Y'know, if you're accusing me of something, spit it out. All this subtext is going over my head," Jon remarks casually. 

"Oh, I wouldn't be so ungrateful as to accuse you, Mr Neilson. I'm merely enquiring how it is that a young man of only sixteen years of age acted so rationally in the face of a dying man."

The little hints the man keep dropping, that he knows all about Jon, is concerning, but from the sound of it, Mycroft has gotten a hold of Jonathan Neilson's records rather than anything more incriminating. There's nothing concrete linking him to the SGC. All data relating to Loki's cloning experiments are stored in hard copy deep in the mountain, and the information was altered to make it seem like Loki's experiments had failed and no viable clones were ever produced. The clone of Jack O'Neill now exists as Jonathan Neilson, complete with watertight records that no one can ever contest as bogus. Even the monthly pay-outs given to him by the SGC are disguised as money from a trust fund set up by deceased parents.

"So the fact that I can keep my cool during a crisis makes me suspicious?" Jon asks sceptically. "How do you know my name anyway?"

"My brother," Sherlock drawls, "is the British government. You're obviously intending to return to the States soon, so you've purchased an air ticket which requires some form of identification. American teenager, blond hair and blue eyes, approximately sixteen to eighteen years old, travelling alone. Not difficult to pinpoint your identity with those parameters."

A frisson of alarm runs down his spine. Jon would think anyone else was exaggerating, but not Sherlock. The genius is so confident in his own brilliance that he doesn't need to lie at all, or at least, lying right now serves no purpose.

"I merely occupy a minor position in the government," Mycroft demurs, but fails to explain how that 'minor' position would allow him to dig up Jon's identity. "Of course, I cannot fault your composure, but I find that combined with other information that Sherlock has doubtlessly already spoken of at length, you are, how shall I put it, a _very_ unusual young man."

"Gee, thanks, buddy," he replies sarcastically.

Mycroft angles his upper body towards him, and Jon can almost taste the change in atmosphere in the car as the man zeroes in on him. It's like having a spotlight shining on him, exposing all his secrets and leaving nothing hidden. To his right, Sherlock finally shifts his attention fully to them, and talk about being stuck between rocks and hard places.

"I find myself wondering, Mr Neilson," and now Mycroft is a shark scenting blood in the water, circling around him seeking any weaknesses, "how you came to be in possession of the gun you have hidden on your person right now, and how comfortable you seem to be with it."

Jon doesn't hide anything, because the two men he's trapped in a car with will know he's trying to hide. They may be able to read his face, clothes and body language and come up with _smarter than most people his age_ , _soldier_ , _identity crisis_ and maybe even _killer_ , but he can already tell that the Holmeses are unconventional to the extreme in terms of their morality. The most important facet to Jon's identity, _clone_ , is not something that can be inferred from his physical appearance.

He meets Mycroft's gaze head-on, fearless. "Going to get me in trouble for that?"

"Oh, please. We could care less about illegal firearms, though I wonder how you'll manage to get it through airport security. Perhaps you'll dump it before you leave London." Sherlock's voice becomes speculative.

Without breaking eye contact, Mycroft says smoothly, "No, Sherlock."

The implications sink in, and Jon is incredulous enough to snap his head over to the younger Holmes, the sudden rush of irrational terror and anger making his fists clench. "Guns are not toys, Sherlock!"

A bemused silence falls in the car at his outburst. The brothers stare at him, Mycroft with cool contemplation, Sherlock with wide-eyed fascination, no doubt noting Jon's glare, increased pulse rate and other minute details. 

The gun tucked into his jacket is a heavy burden making his skin crawl. For the first time since meeting Sherlock, Jon is uncomfortable, chinks in his armour exposed. Sherlock is an adult, but in so many ways he's a child too, and the combination of children and guns make up a huge proportion of his nightmares. 

The rest of the car ride passes wordlessly, Mycroft bidding Sherlock farewell with "I'll be back to discuss certain pertinent issues, Sherlock" and Jon with a calculating smile.

*********

Sherlock's apartment on Montague Street is, on first impression, a total mess. Papers, boxes, files and other knick-knacks are strewn everywhere. There are suspicious half-melted patches in the carpeting and burn marks on the ceiling. A skull sits on a stack of leather-bound books, a half-dismantled radio on the coffee table along with a jar of greenish liquid. A screwdriver is embedded in the wall.

It's a mess, but to Sherlock, it's likely an organised mess. He probably remembers exactly where everything is. Daniel's office and Sam's lab, while never having reached this level of disarray, were similar. Jon takes it all in, then asks, "Is it safe to sleep on the couch? You're not doing some kind of experiment on it?"

Sherlock darts him a quick glance, seeming perplexed. "That's not what people normally say when they first see the flat."

"I've seen worse." Jon shrugs. "What do people normally say?"

" _Is that a bloody human skull_?" Sherlock recites along with the most ridiculous fake-horror twist to his face.

Jon laughs; he can't help it. Sherlock grins at him. 

It's the totally wrong time of day, but he makes ham omelettes for both of them. Sherlock glares mutinously at the plate Jon sets down in front of him and seems about ready to swipe the whole thing onto the floor. Jon draws on his inner Colonel and orders, with his best officer's voice, the other man to eat.

To his surprise, Sherlock does.

"You make no _sense_ ," Sherlock tells him over a forkful of omelette. "You're incredibly mature for your age due to having lived through some traumatic experiences, and act like you've been raised a soldier, but you had a fairly normal childhood. You see Mycroft as your equal, and behave as if I'm younger than you. In fact, you place me in the same category as those homeless children for whom you have a strong protective instinct. You're just contradictions all over!"

Jon doesn't reply, concentrating on eating.

Sherlock exhales in frustration, chewing viciously on his last bite of egg. "You're really not going to answer any of my questions, are you?"

"I did tell you that right from the start," he points out reasonably.

" _Arrgh!_ " The genius throws down his fork with a clatter and shoves himself up from the table. He stomps across the apartment to a door presumably leading to his bedroom and disappears through it, scratching at his forearm as he goes. The door slams shut with a soap opera-worthy crash.

What will he find if he goes after Sherlock, Jon wonders as he washes up. The man snorting a line of cocaine or shooting up with a needle? Is it any of his business? Sherlock is a genius and doesn't need Jon telling him why it's a bad idea to do drugs, why it's such a damn pity to have a brilliant mind like his ruined by drugs. Then again, it's the brilliance itself that's causing the problem, isn't it?

Sighing, he switches off the lights and slumps onto the couch, tucking the afghan there around himself and drifting off to sleep.

An indeterminable time later, instincts honed from decades of being a soldier jolt him from asleep to wide awake in a heartbeat. His face is mashed into the back of the couch, but he continues breathing slowly and listens hard. Someone scratches with nails against flesh. 

Relaxing, he wriggles so that he's lying on his other side. "Do you sleep at all?"

"Seldom." The low voice comes from a few feet in front of the couch. The windows are on the other side of the apartment, so Sherlock is just a dark silhouette sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest like a small child. 

Jon waits patiently, sleepily comfortable and secure in this tiny London apartment.

"How do you stand it?" whispers Sherlock. "Knowing more than everyone else and knowing they'll never catch up? Never fitting in no matter how hard you try, having to pretend you're above it all but you're really not? I didn't ask for this. I could have been normal, could have friends who understand me but I'm not and I'm alone and sometimes it's just so _difficult_." 

The last word curls up in a choked-off noise, and in the space between them floats decades of hurt and loneliness.

Humans are built to crave contact, to have relationships with others; family, friends, lovers. Anyone who tries to tell themselves that they don't need company, that the body is just a vessel for the mind is fooling themselves. Jack O'Neill had a family, and forged life-long friendships in the Air Force. Created his own family with Sarah and Charlie. When that was gone, the thing that saved him from eating his own gun was the SGC giving him a new purpose again. It kept the despair at bay long enough to meet Daniel and Sam and Teal'c, to form bonds again to anchor him solidly to the world. 

Jonathan Neilson is a fifty-year-old soldier in a sixteen-year-old body, and that's not quite the same as Sherlock but the parallels are there. He holds too much knowledge and he'll never fit in with the masses. He's been uprooted from his friends, his career, his _life_ , and he's alone now no matter how many times his old team insists they're still there for him. Even after a year Jon's not quite convinced he can or even wants to rebuild his life from square one again.

"A purpose," he murmurs into the darkness, feeling old and exhausted. "We find a purpose out there in the world. It's the only way for us not to go crazy, getting stuck in our own heads. Then we wait. Six billion people, there has to be at least a handful who we can call friends." The Air Force, his wife, his son, the Stargate, his team. What's next for him?

Sherlock is still and quiet for a long minute. Then, "Mycroft will be along tomorrow to convince me to go to rehab. Whether I agree or not, he'll have me sent there the day after."

"Mmm. You could stick it to him by checking yourself in early."

A startled exhale of amusement, then a rustle of movement as Sherlock unfurls and gets up. "Perhaps."

Bare feet pad across the carpet. Jon tracks the dark shape to the bedroom door where it pauses briefly. "Inconvenient of you not to own a mobile. Write down your email before you leave tomorrow."

The door opens and shuts gently with the finality of a farewell.

*********

Jon leaves London with the clothes on his back and a mostly empty backpack. The only souvenir he brings back with him is a worn chipped figurine of the Tower of London which the kids had given him.

Summer holidays are almost over and as always the mere thought of returning to high school is enough to make him grit his teeth in frustration. But he's also buoyed by a strange sense of optimism and anticipation. He had told Sherlock that they needed to find a purpose for themselves, and it's not like Jon didn't already know this, but meeting the lost genius had sparked something in him. The will to live, to prove to Sherlock that it's possible for them – the odd ones out for one reason or another – to carve out their own space in the world and be, if not happy, at least content.

His mailbox back home is stuffed with flyers and bills. Later after sleeping off his jet lag, he sorts through the pile and blinks when a small white card flutters to the ground. It's a business card, he realises when he picks it up. Printed on the front is a phone number and nothing else. On the back -

_Mr Neilson,  
Do contact me whenever you feel ready. I have vast opportunities available for a talent such as yourself.  
M. Holmes_

**Author's Note:**

> There just aren't enough fics about clone!Jack, which is unacceptable. I cannot begin to tell you how much fun I had writing this piece.


End file.
